Owned by the Biker: Desperados MC

by Ashley Hall

  This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.

  OWNED BY THE BIKER copyright 2016 by Ashley Hall. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

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  Chapter One

  The room is small and dark, with fading paint on the walls and dying petunias in a vase on the desk. By some miracle, Isabella has been able to convince her mother and father to let her stay the night in a room of her own. They're right across from Isabella, of course, but this is still far better than trying to sleep with their gazes always on her.

  A fresh set of sheets has just been put on the bed. They smell like detergent, chemical and floral. When she sits down on the edge of the bed, the springs creak in protest. It's disturbing because she's far from overweight. In fact, even by her standards, she could put on a few more pounds.

  It's the stress that's done it, Isabella's certain.

  Her appetite has all but vanished. It's almost impossible to get herself to eat right now, no matter how lavish the meals being prepared by the chefs might be.

  Someone knocks on the door. It's her mother, no doubt—the main source of her current stress. A quick glance around proves that the room is in no worse a state of disarray than when Isabella first walked in, not that it's been very long. They've only just finished checking in about ten minutes ago. All the same, she puts on her best painted smile and says, “Come in, Mother. What can I get for you?”

  Queen Alexandra D'Alene is an imposing figure, even while clad only in her dressing gown. The dark green fabric makes her hair stand out much more than usual, this coifed-up thing that always seems to be in a state of perfection.

  “There you are,” she says, like Isabella might have been somewhere else. “I was hoping you would still be awake. Isabella, why haven't you changed yet?”

  “I'm going to get a shower.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes, Mother. I'm certain that the showers aren't going to kill me.” Isabella rolls her eyes, hoping that the smile on her lips lessens the comment.

  Alexandra shakes her head. “It's risky business, Isabella. You know that. Traveling—”

  “Is a privilege, not a gift.” The quote rolls easily off of her tongue. Isabella has heard her mother say it often enough in the last few months, since they started this strange tour through the United States.

  She smiles at Isabella. “Exactly. I'm glad that at least some of your lessons are sticking. It's a shame that they all don't.”

  “Mother. I'm not having this conversation with you right now!”

  “Now is the perfect time! With the flight delayed, we have no place to be. Isabella, you need to listen to me. This is important. It's not just your future, Isabella. It's about the future of Davaria as a whole! This isn't something to play with. It's not just a game!”

  She stands up quickly. The hem of her pale blue skirt flutters around her ankles. Isabella folds her arms over her chest and glowers at Alexandra. “We're not having this conversation right now!”

  “If not now, when?” Alexandra sighs. “You never sit down and listen to me, Isabella! I'm not doing this to upset you. I just need you to understand!”

  “You need me to understand? Listen to yourself, Mother! I'm not going to marry Hendric!”

  “He's a good man!”

  “I wouldn't know! I've never met him before,” Isabella counters viciously. The words fall from her mouth like dripping venom, like something she's never wanted to admit before. “I refuse to be like you and Father! I'm not going to fall into a loveless marriage!”

  Flesh strikes flesh. Alexandra looks livid. Her palm leaves a bright red smear on Isabella’s burning cheek. Isabella's hand flies up, pressing against the stinging flesh. “You...hit me.”

  “Stay your tongue,” hisses Alexandra. “You shall not speak to me like that. Is that understood? Whatever thought you have in your mind, get rid of it. I married your father for the good of our people, and you're going to do the same. It isn't fun, Isabella, but it's our duty.”

  The slap wasn't particularly hard, but it still leaves Isabella's entire body burning. She shakes her head and draws in a deep breath. “Get out.”

  Her words strike something deep inside of Isabella. Fear isn't foreign to the young woman. She's a princess—a ruler—the daughter of Davaria's royal family. Isabella lives each day worrying about the next; there's no way to take a step without being watched, no way to live without being guided.

  Alexandra shakes her head. “You need to get your head on straight, Isabella. When we return home, you will accept Hendric's proposal.”

  I won't.

  The words don't actually leave Isabella's mouth, but she thinks them viciously. They stare each other down for a few more moments, but then Alexandra turns away. “Goodnight, Isabella.”

  Isabella stays quiet. Then, when she's sure that her mother isn't about to come back, she turns around and grabs her purse. “I'll show her. No one is going to be dictating my life. I'm not going to marry him!”

  She doesn't know what she's going to do, but she knows that she cannot stay here any longer. Tonight, Isabella is going to turn around and take her life into her own hands.

  # # #

  “Another round, Bethy!”

  Bethy, the bartender, snorts. “Get your head on straight, Gabriel. You've been here less than an hour. Do you really want to get that pissed?”

  “Just get me another beer,” grumbles Gabriel impatiently. “I already told you, it's been a rough day.”

  “It's three
in the morning,” warns Bethy, even as she pulls another lukewarm beer out from behind the counter. “I'm going to have to give last call soon.”

  “I'll leave when you do.”

  “Home?”

  Gabriel shrugs. He cracks open the beer and takes a swig. “Or the Hornet's Nest. They have a later final call.”

  Bethy gives him a disapproving look. They've been friends since childhood. It's hard not to keep an eye on each other, especially on days like this. “You should go home, Gabe.”

  “I don't want to go home,” snaps Gabe. “I want to get so drunk that I don't remember anything that has happened in the last five years.”

  Bethy sighs. The bar is almost completely empty. She drapes herself over the counter, next to Gabriel's drink. “Hun, it's time you got over them.”

  “I did! I thought that I was!” Gabe rakes a hand through his messy black hair. “But seeing them today... Seeing her, in that dress…”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “She didn't have too. I could see it in Renee's face. She and Slade, they're in it for the long haul.” Gabriel shakes his head. “I just...it still hurts. When Renee cheated on me, when she got with Slade, I thought my whole world was about to break.”

  “You still think that?”

  “I do, now. I cannot believe they're getting married!”

  The bell above the front door chimes. Bethy glances that way, then does a double-take. The woman that just entered the bar is nothing like her usual customers, with their leather-clad thighs and wind-swept hair. This woman looks like she just stepped out of a taxi and into a different world, with pale skin that looks almost sickly in the yellow bar light and blonde hair so pale it appears almost white.

  Heels clack against the ground every time she takes a step. A pale blue skirt hangs about her legs, riddled with intricate stitching, these strange loops that never seem to end. A pale cream jacket has been shrugged over her shoulders, and she clutches tight to a designer handbag.

  “Okay, Gabe. You do what you need to do. It's not like anything I'm going to say will change your mind.” Bethy sighs and pushes herself up off the counter. She taps her friend on the shoulder. “But maybe something she says will?”

  Gabe blinks and turns on his stool so he can watch the newcomer. She sways her way through the bar, exuding the air of someone that doesn't belong here. “Take your bets. Is she really lost or really drunk?”

  “Maybe she's like you,” says Bethy. “Maybe she's out here to get real drunk. Hey, sweetheart! Go on and tell me what you want. I'll be right over with it.”

  The woman looks startled, like she wasn't expecting to be addressed. Before she can answer, one of the regulars, Carlton, says, “Give her something good. It can go on my tab!”

  Chapter Two

  The bar is small and dark, but this is exactly what Isabella is looking for right now. Her mother would simply die to know that she is out here, drinking with strangers, eating grease-laden fries that someone prepared in a backroom kitchen. Someone has just turned on the jukebox. The song is loud, upbeat, and almost blaring.

  Love is a burnin' thing,

  And it makes a fiery ring

  Bound by wild desire

  I fell into a ring of fire.

  The drink is strong and bitter, but she's determined to ignore the woes. It's just one night, after all. One night and then she's back to the humdrum woes of her regular schedule. Someone left a pen laying on the floor. Isabella swipes it and is idly scratching the design for a high couture gown onto a crumpled-up napkin.

  It's a pretty design, something that she's drawn again and again.

  Isabella is certain, if she only had the right credentials, she could get someone to buy the design. Of course, that's just another source of her distress. The thought of her mother and their many arguments never fails to sour her stomach.

  She ignores the fries in favor of downing another one of the small glasses. It makes her head spin, makes her tongue feel heavy.

  Suddenly, a broad-shouldered man sits down across from her. Isabella blinks and gives him a foggy smile. “Hello. Can I help you?”

  “I think that you can,” says the man. He has a heavy Irish brogue. A thick, red beard hangs from his chin. When he leans across the table, Isabella catches a strong whiff of whiskey and sweat. “You come here with someone?”

  “No! Actually, I came here to get away from someone. Why ever do you ask?”

  “Just wondering, doll. Say, who're you trying to get away from? A boyfriend?”

  Isabella shakes her head. She's not used to being careful with whom she speaks to. Usually, her parents have to give the okay first. As such, even if the alcohol wasn't making her mind buzz and chirp, she wouldn't think to be careful. “My mother, actually. I'm so tired of her trying to rule my life!”

  The man laughs. “Aren't we all? You can call me Carlton.”

  He holds out his hand. Isabella takes it, only to find herself pulled partway across the table. “Um, what are you doing?”

  He grins at her, crooked and dark. “I just wanted to get a better look at your pretty face.”

  “Please let go. You're starting to hurt me.” Isabella tries to pull back but she cannot. “I said let go!”

  “I'm not doing anything wrong,” says Carlton. “I'm just looking. Ain't nothing wrong with that. Why, I'd even be taking it as a compliment, if I were you.”

  “Well you aren't, and I want you to let me go!”

  “That's not happening,” says Carlton, leaning that much closer. Their lips brush against each other. “You got a boyfriend lurking somewhere?”

  “I…what?” Isabella pulls back as far as she can, taken aback, not just by the question but by this entire turn of events.

  Carlton repeats himself. “You got a boyfriend somewhere?”

  “Yeah,” says a newcomer. “Actually, she does.”

  He leans onto the table like he owns it, this picture-perfect look of rugged perfection. The stubble on his chin seems more purposeful than anything, and his untucked Raiders shirt has a certain charm about it that Isabella cannot explain.

  Carlton groans. “Don't be a dick, Gabe. I saw her first, alright?”

  “She's not a piece of meat, Carlton. You don't get to call dibs on her.” The man, Gabe, holds out his hand. “Miss? Why don't you come join me at the counter?”

  Isabella gives them both a wide-eyed sort of look. “Okay? I don't…that sounds fine.”

  She stands and picks up her empty glass. Gabe chuckles, hooks an arm around her waist, and leads her towards the front bar. He smells like motor oil and dollar store cologne, like he's spent too much time sitting around in someone else's smoke.

  “Just up here?” she asks, even as she takes a seat.

  “That's right,” says Gabe, “just up here. You looked a little spooked by him. I hope you don't mind me stepping in?”

  Isabella shakes her head. “No, not at all. I just wasn't sure what to do, really.”

  “Carlton likes to talk big, but he's mostly harmless,” assures Gabe. “Here, why don't you let me buy you a drink?”

  “He's been buying me drinks.”

  “Then take one more, on me this time. Miss?”

  “Izzy,” she says, because she might be out here to get a taste of freedom, but she's smart enough to know that it won't ever come should her true title get out.

  Princesses don't get to have their own freedom, only that which is placed upon them by others.

  “Izzy.” The name rolls off his tongue like molten silver. It sounds right falling from those lips. “Well, you can call me Gabe.”

  “Gabe. I like that name. It suits you.”

  “Oh? How can you tell?”

  “I just can,” laughs Isabella. “You look like a good person, and that's a good, strong name. Gabe, like Gabriel, the archangel.”

  Gabe raises a brow. “You're a religious girl?”

  “I'm the daughter of a religious girl,” says Isabella absently. “I
don't know if I really believe it all myself.”

  “Well, I can assure you,” Gabe flashes her a blinding smile, “I'm nothing like your angel.”

  “Oh?”

  He hums. “Nothing. Trust me on that.”

  “You were helpful back there,” says Isabella.

  Gabe shakes his head. “Being a decent person doesn't mean you're a good person.”

  “I think they're both the same thing. And trust me, I know when I'm around a decent person.”

  “Like Carlton?”

  “I never said he was decent,” huffs Isabella. “I just didn't know what to say to him. It's called being caught off guard!”

  “Oh, is that what you're going with?” Gabe snickers and waves over the waitress, ordering them both another drink. “Alright, I'll let you have that, if you tell me what you're doing out here.”